Ring of Lilies
by QueenArla
Summary: Post-GOF. It's the summer before Fifth Year and Harry is still haunted by the nightmares of the past. When Draco Malfoy comes to stay at Privet Drive, chaos ensues and startling revelations about the Boy-Who-Lived follow. With two fiercely protective and cunning Slytherins at his side, Harry Potter may yet win this war. WARNING: Abuse, depression, etc.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

Harry Potter sighed and leaned against the freshly painted fence that surrounded the Dursleys' front yard. He tilted back precariously, relishing the squeaking of the wood and wondered how Aunt Petunia would react if the fence broke. The bed of flowers she kept meticulously clean would be in direct line of the disaster and the paint would leave white stains on the mud. For a while he entertained the notion of going through with the act, then his senses returned. Shaking his head, he pulled himself upright and cursed.

His shirt - oversized and baggy like all the others - had stuck to the wet paint and dried while he stood contemplating the repercussions of uprooting the fence. As he struggled to prize the shirt away from the offending wood, a shrill voice demanded his presence in the house. Now.

He groaned and looked at the ruined shirt. It was one of his only clothes and his relatives liked to rub that in his face every chance they got. Glancing at the fence, he wondered if he should repaint it now or answer his aunt. Finally making a decision, he trudged back into the house, the white paint on his back dully reflecting the sun's last rays.

—

The last remaining Potter had seen many things. Some so strange that many a wizard lived a full life without witnessing what he had. As such, it was very hard to catch him unexpected. However, what Harry Potter had _never_ expected to see was Draco Malfoy and Dumbledore crowded in the hall of Number 4, Privet Drive, with Petunia Dursley and her son.

'Good afternoon, my boy, or perhaps I should say, good evening. The sun is about to set, after all.'

Malfoy made a disgusted sound in his throat at the cheery tones. Harry was still staring speechlessly at the little group. Dumbledore looked as relaxed as ever, only serving to irritate Petunia despite her fear. Malfoy was the complete opposite, standing stiffly, as if ready to bolt at any moment. This was the first time Harry had seen Malfoy anything less than completely put together. The notion that Harry's house and the presence of his relatives made him so was quite satisfying. Catching his gaze on him, Malfoy looked up and sneered.

'What's the matter, Potter? Kneazle got your tongue?'

Ignoring the blond wizard, Harry turned to Dumbledore. 'What are you doing here Professor?' he asked, not bothering with pleasantries. Dumbledore's eyes twinkled.

'Why, Harry, may I not drop by a student's house as a friendly visit?'

'You wouldn't drop by _this_ house if you hadn't anything important to tell me. Besides, why did you bring Malfoy with you?' He carefully avoided saying _my_ house in front of his aunt and cousin. Mercifully, their fear from all things magic kept them abnormally quiet as they watched the interaction.

'You really are too perceptive, Harry,' said Dumbledore sighing amusedly. Then his face grew solemn and he continued, 'We are, as you know, in the midst of a war, where safety is never guaranteed. It is especially worrying for the parents, and for the past few weeks, I have constantly been reassuring panicked mothers and fathers about the safety of their children at Hogwarts. However, for some people the situation is quite different. You see, my boy, their very homes lack the safety of the wards that, say, guard _your_ home.'

Harry was growing increasingly suspicious of this conversation. He might not be terribly intelligent like Hermione, but he was a bright child. He did not like where this was going one bit. Especially since Malfoy had yet to say what his part was in the whole affair.

Dumbledore was still talking. 'For some parents staying at home becomes a matter of life and death. Just yesterday, I was in my office enjoying a particularly tasty treacle tart when Mrs. Malfoy paid me a visit. She insisted that the Manor was no place for Mr. Malfoy to stay now, considering its…. reputation.'

'You forgot to mention _the people that live in it_ ,' Harry muttered under his breath.

He said it quietly, yet Malfoy heard. His face twisted in anger but he clenched his fists and did not speak.

Harry stood in shock until Dumbledore's voice penetrated through his confusion.

'She demanded he stay the safest place, a shelter where Voldemort had no hope of finding him. The only place safer than Hogwarts and perhaps Gringotts is here, so I deduced…'

At once, it all clicked together and Harry interrupted. 'No, no, no.' He emphasized it by shaking his head vigorously, as Dumbledore tried to convince him.

'Harry…'

'No.'

My boy, listen to me….'

'No, no, I will _not_ have Malfoy stay with me! It's bad enough I'm stuck here all summer by myself and now you dump this on me? No _thanks!'_

The Dursleys were forgotten as a back and forth ensued between the wizened old man and the young boy with blazing green eyes.

—

Malfoy, standing a little apart, watching the argument, realized for the first time that he had never noticed how the Boy-Who-Lived actually looked.

Now, he took in his defensive stance, something that was hardly intimidating due his overall scrawniness. Anyone who saw his build would comment on how weak he seemed, but if they cared to raise their gaze a little higher, they would be pinned by his green-eyed stare.

So many emotions burned within: passion, anger, stubbornness, and a fair amount of hatred. He wondered how someone could feel so much for one person, someone they didn't even _like_. If that was how he reacted to Malfoy's presence, how would he feel about the wizard who had murdered his parents? Suddenly, Malfoy wasn't so sure the Dark Lord would win, after all.

And _Merlin_ knew he would take it to the grave with him, but at that moment, Harry Potter actually scared him.

—

He focused back on the argument that seemed to have abated somewhat. Potter still seemed defiant but it was resigned and he finally opted for silence as Dumbledore explained his reasons.

'The blood wards around this house are extremely sufficient to protect you both for the duration of the summer. The only thing I ask of Mr. Malfoy and yourself is that you do not venture outside of the house. It is extremely important that Voldemort does not catch wind of your location. Unfortunately, that means you may not communicate with your friends through any way that can be tracked.'

At Harry's furious expression, he sighed.

'Believe me, Harry, when I say it is not my pleasure to keep you from your friends. I understand how important they are to you, but there are lives at stake here. If it is discovered that you and Mr. Malfoy are here… let's just say that the consequences will be dire.'

Harry turned to Malfoy and glared. 'Do you mind?'

'Oh, I don't mind at all, Potter. Please continue.'

'Mr. Malfoy, perhaps you could stand to the side for a moment?' asked Dumbledore.

Looking utterly displeased, he shuffled off to lean against the cupboard where, unbeknownst to him, Harry had spent much of his childhood.

Before Harry could speak, Dumbledore said, 'I came to you in hopes that you would be the bigger man in this situation and simply agree to disagree, Harry. I expect you will not disappoint.'

Harry frowned. All his life, he had been expected to be the bigger man, whether it was ignoring Dudley's taunting or finishing his chores without complaining. Not to mention, he knew full well his last four years at Hogwarts had required wisdom and courage beyond his years. Wasn't that enough?

'But it's _Malfoy_ ,' he stressed. He knew it was a weak argument and cringed when it came out whinier than he intended, but he ploughed on. 'If I ever needed anything, much less a place to stay for the whole summer, he would never agree to help. Neither would his parents. He's always hated me, so why should I do anything for him? I have better things to be doing than babysitting the stupid prat, you know. Like _homework_.'

Okay, so he was laying it on a bit thick, but he was desperate to get the Slytherin out of his hair.

Dumbledore laughed - he knew Harry could care less about homework - and laid a wrinkled hand on his shoulder. 'Harry, what makes you any different from Tom?'

Harry glanced at his Professor quizzically before replying. 'My ability to…love?' It came out more as a question.

'Yes, Harry. Love, but also _forgiveness_.

Tell me, have you ever asked yourself why people are willing to sacrifice themselves for you? It is so you can rid the world of Voldemort, of course, but there is more to it than that. People turn to the Light because we represent the kind of world they want to live in: free of the hatred that drives wizard-kind apart. So, my boy, if you truly believe in our cause, then prove your loyalty; put your differences with Mr. Malfoy aside and give help to someone in need. You are no longer a child, Harry, and a war is no time to pursue schoolyard rivalries. Perhaps…perhaps it is time you reflect upon what is truly important.'

Harry, red-faced from this mild version of a telling off, peered up at Dumbledore, and when he didn't continue, asked cautiously, 'Important in what, Professor?'

'Everything, Harry. In life, in war, but especially in a _person_. Very well, are we in an agreement then?' he asked, releasing the boy's shoulder and clapping his hands together.

'Yes,' mumbled Harry, blinking at the sudden change of topic. 'I don't like it and it's going to be a horrible summer, but maybe…maybe the ferret will spill some blackmail-worthy information. And he'll owe me _forever_. Oh, this is brilliant!'

By the end of the sentence, Harry was grinning, and Dumbledore thought he could see why the Sorting Hat had almost placed Harry Potter in Slytherin.

Shaking his head fondly, the old man beckoned a sulky blond forward and motioned for him to unload his pockets. He did so, and a wave of Dumbledore's wand reverted the minuscule packages into Malfoy's luggage. As the last trunk resized, it seemed to sink in and Malfoy's face changed.

'Wait, so I'm staying?' he asked, an expression of stark relief betraying his doubts at being accepted in his nemesis's house evident before he wiped away the emotion. However, his shoulders that were previously tense and upright, relaxed visibly.

'I believe you are, Mr. Malfoy and I would like a word, if I may?'

This time Harry shifted away from the two…only to bump into his aunt and cousin. In the crowded hallway, Aunt Petunia's disbelieving whisper travelled quickly and Harry winced.

'That boy is not staying in my house! What will the neighbors say? Isn't one of you freaks enough? Oh my, what will _Vernon_ say?'

'I'd like to believe that he will not object. It is very kind of you to support Harry through his hardships and you will not mind him having a friend over, surely.'

Harry snorted. Support him through hardships? The man must be really off his rocker. And calling Malfoy a 'friend' was just stretching it. As Petunia made to protest, Dumbledore leveled her with a stare and uttered one last thing.

'Remember my last, Petunia.'

It sounded so ominous that his aunt paled. She pursed her lips and said nothing more, turning and dragging a frightened Dudley into the kitchen.

'My last? What does that mean, Professor?' Harry asked curiously. How had Petunia understood Dumbledore when he hadn't? Did his aunt know more about his world than she let on?

The frustrating wizard just winked at him and headed towards the door. 'Well, if we are finished here, I will take my leave. Draco, I expect you will not abuse Harry's hospitality. Harry, my boy, please consider what I've said. And lastly, goodnight to you both!'

With a flourish of his brightly colored robes and the twinkle of an eye, he was gone, leaving the two alone.

Harry, busy thinking about his talk with Dumbledore, momentarily forgot about the annoying presence in his house. As he reached the stairs, he heard a throat being cleared.

'Nice shirt, Scarhead. Tell me do you _try_ to look homeless or does it come naturally?'

Harry groaned. This was going to be a long, long holiday.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

 **Chapter Two**

Vernon Dursley arrived home at promptly six o'clock.

He had never deviated from this routine and didn't intend to. After all, six o'clock was a very _normal_ time to arrive home and Vernon loved being normal. It was very liberating.

A scowl overtook his features as he thought of the only thing that stood in the way of his refreshingly mundane life: his blasted nephew. The freak caused trouble _wherever_ he went. That boy had managed to turn his relatively quiet life on its head, jumped on it and proceeded to pound every bit of normalcy out of it. Now he was back for the summer and buzzing around like an annoying gnat.

Vernon scowled ferociously, causing the neighbor's son to murmur an apology and dart out of his way. His mood improved considerably. Ah, the joys of intimidation. Needless to say, he had resolved to ignore the Potter brat for the remainder of the summer and enjoy some family time with his wife and child.

Smiling widely, he unlocked the door and walked into the hall, shouting for the boy to come get his coat and briefcase.

He didn't appear.

Vernon frowned. The boy _always_ came when he was called, it was the cardinal rule of the Dursley household. If he didn't, well, there were plenty other…ways to get him to obey. When Potter didn't bother coming after he was called a second time, Vernon shrugged. It was the boy's loss; he was asking for it.

He walked to the kitchen, noticing that the house was rather silent except for the muffled thumping that came from above. As he entered the spotless room, he was greeted by an unpleasant sight. Standing to one side, glaring, were Petunia and Dudley. The subject of their unwelcoming stares was a stranger dressed in the oddest clothes. Clothes that Vernon had seen before, when the backward, strange gaggle of people had appeared on his doorstep to take his nephew away.

A vein throbbed in Vernon's temple.

It was _not enough_ that he and Petunia had taken in the brat abandoned by his own kind and _dumped_ on their doorstep in the middle of the night like a bloody parcel, provided him with food and shelter (well, most of the time) and taken great care to squash whatever freakiness his parents had left him as a parting gift, but now the ungrateful whelp invited over his insane little friends? He was going to teach the Potter boy a lesson he would never forget as sure as his name was Vernon Dursley.

His gaze turned towards the blond lad at the other end of the room. He had drawn himself up to his full height, arms crossed, aloof. Even though Vernon hated him and his kind, he had to admit that the young man's posture was impeccable and his nose was held just high enough to convey subtle disdain of him and his family. He reminded the older man of the rich snobs that frequented his offices in hopes of buying the company.

Vernon had always envied their luxurious lifestyle and tried to imitate them the best he could and was practically at their level even if he didn't have the money to show for it.

Nevertheless, this was a _freak_ like his nephew and as such, deserved to be treated like one. So he ignored the boy and turned to Petunia.

'What is _that?_ ' he hissed through clenched teeth, for once forgoing the formalities. At Petunia's silence, he added, 'Did the boy bring him? _Because if he did_ , I'll…'

At once Petunia spoke, casting fearful glances at the wizard whose shocked expression at being so disgracefully snubbed was quickly turning to anger, 'Perhaps we should speak outside, darling?'

Vernon resisted, vividly recalling the last time Dudley had been alone with another freak, but consoled himself with the fact that if Dudley was hurt, he would do the same to His Royal Freakiness as he would to his nephew.

* * *

A thick silence permeated the air, causing Dudley to fidget and shuffle his feet around. Draco allowed himself the opportunity to reflect upon this fat Muggle's ill-breeding. He himself felt awkward and out of place, but etiquette classes, forced onto him at three years of age severely discouraged any show of such vulnerability.

Abruptly, Dudley spoke. 'What's your name? Are you a wiz…a wi…?'

'Wizard,' finished Draco scathingly. 'And if I had a choice, I would never to stoop so low as to introduce myself to a mere Muggle. My family is the most renowned of families and my lineage one of the greatest. _I_ am Draco Malfoy.'

Dudley stared at him for a few moments before the house filled with the sound of his laughter, so loud that even the thumping upstairs paused for a few seconds. Draco stood there, stunned. What had he said that was so funny? He had carefully thought that out and molded it to fit Professor Snape's way of speech. It was supposed to invoke fear and respect, not sounds of merriment! No one, _no one_ made fun of his name!

Dudley was still laughing. 'Dr…Dracc…Draco!' He looked up at Malfoy, noticed the other's bewilderment and nearly bent over double, an impressive feat, Draco reflected, considering his bloated appearance. He rested his meaty fists on his knees, trying to regain his breath when he glanced over at Draco again, squinty eyes disappearing behind his cheeks.

'What did you say your last name was?'

Draco fought a growl. 'I'm glad my name provides you with such entertainment. Perhaps you would like to see what _I_ indulge in for pleasure?'

The hidden threat was not conceived by its intended recipient. A chubby face looked at him blankly, the mop of blond hair flopping from side to side as Dudley sporadically shook with mirth.

'What?' asked Draco, tired of this Muggle already.

' _What_ , what?' came the confused reply.

Draco looked at him incredulously. Was this unflatteringly obese Muggle touched in the head? As much as he believed that Potter and the Weasel shared only half a brain cell between them, it seemed that his relatives were devoid of even that blessed union. At least Potter _understood_ that he was being provoked, rising to the occasion in his predictable, sickeningly heroic manner.

Voicing his opinion, he sneered at the other boy. 'I am yet again proven right. A few years ago, I deduced that Potter's insistence to stay at Hogwarts over the holidays meant that his scarred forehead was not wanted at home. At this point, I can almost see why. Being wanted by you is an insult to any individual's intellect.'

Draco silently bet himself ten galleons that the overgrown fifteen-year-old wouldn't recognize the insult.

His luck had taken a vacation to one of his family manors in France, it seemed, because Dudley's face screwed up, and he glared at him menacingly. Draco was vaguely alarmed.

'You think you're so great because you've got a stick that you can wave around? You think you can insult us normal people because you have a piece of wood in your pocket? Where would you be if it broke, hmm…?'

Draco fought to hide his anxiety at the thinly veiled threat and the truth - Merlin forbid! - in the words.

'On accident, of course,' assured Dudley, his piggy eyes glinting with menace. 'You remind me of Harry, you know. All cocky and sure of yourself until someone brings you to reality: You might be a prince in your world, freak, but here, _you're just like the rest of us_.'

The words were like a knife to Draco's heart as he was reminded that he was not the Malfoy heir anymore. He didn't have a home, all he had in wealth were his belongings, and for the first time, he could not depend on his heritage to get him out of trouble. He was surrounded by people he hated, people who hated _him_ , if Dursley's warm welcome was anything to go by. His father could not save him, had in fact actively _supported_ his mother in the ridiculous decision she had made to hide him away.

But perhaps the most startling revelation of all was how _meaningless_ his name was, here in the Muggle world. It was something he never expected to lose, but like Professor Snape always said _, Life_ _ **isn't**_ _fair_. Draco knew, he had _promised_ , that he was going to be on his best behavior, because, as his mother had insisted, he was at Potter's mercy.

 _Potter_. His _rival_. The one who had refused his friendship on the first day in front of a crowd of laughing children. Somehow, though he knew it was impractical, the humiliation had never quite worn off.

Suddenly, all of this was too much too soon, and Draco momentarily lost his well-groomed sense of self-preservation that had gotten him this far. He raised a trembling wand at the pathetic Muggle, mind set to curse. Dudley, panicking at the sight of the magical weapon, stumbled blindly backwards, uncaring of the things in his path.

Draco watched in detached fascination.

Soon, his considerable bulk smashed into the dining table, sending it and the flowery vase perched atop it toppling to the ground in a series of incredibly loud, resounding crashes. Draco blinked, realized what he had been doing and with rising apprehension, hid the wand quickly up his sleeve.

Everything seemed to happen in slow motion.

There was a sound of someone running down the stairs, each thump muffled by Draco's own terrified, beating heart. Oh no…

Even worse, there was silence from the dining room. Then a door clicked open.

Rushing footsteps halted in the kitchen as Potter's green eyes widened, taking in the smashed furniture.

The three in the kitchen froze in trepidation as the thundering footfalls of Vernon Dursley headed towards them.

Potter muttered.

'Oh no.'

Then Doomsday fell.

* * *

 **A/N: Follows and Favorites might do the trick,**

 **But reviews make me update more quick!**


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. One has to be a supremely talented witch to own Harry Potter. I am a mere Muggle with a large imagination. Not quite the same thing.

 **Chapter Three**

Harry could hear voices downstairs: the high nasally tones of Petunia and the heavy, masculine ones of Uncle Vernon. He knew he should be worried, but right now all he cared about was the state of his room.

The only guest room in the house was reserved for Aunt Marge and her infamous bulldog, Ripper, and as usual, Dumbledore hadn't bothered to finalize where exactly in the house Malfoy would be staying. Now that the threat of an intimidating wizard with frighteningly abnormal fashion sense had been lifted, the Dursleys would never agree to giving up the extra bedroom. Not that they needed the room; it was purely out of spite. Harry, long since used to such shenanigans of theirs was still, understandably, frustrated.

 _Damn it, Dumbledore, why do you do everything by half measures?_

He grunted as he singlehandedly tried to move the bed and then his school trunk to the far right of the room, against the wall with the barred window. It took him about six minutes, a dozen painful bruises and a few choice swears to achieve his goal. Wiping a sweat-streaked forehead, he finished hiding his wand under the mattress. It would not do to let the Dursleys see a wand at this point or they might snap. He thought, with trained detachedness, that such a task would have taken him only a couple of minutes if he were at Hogwarts.

He was well aware that his friends noticed his extremely thin frame for a boy their age at the start of each year, especially Hermione, but she either didn't have the nerve to ask, or thought that it was Harry's own business. Whatever the reason, Harry was relieved that they did not interrogate him. There was just too much to hide and he hated lying to his friends.

Lost in his thoughts but constantly working, Harry had managed to move his pathetically empty wardrobe into the center of the room, since he assumed he'd have to share with Malfoy, and picked up the clothes and books strewn across the room. One last adjustment had to be made. Dudley's old playthings and recent additions to the ever-growing piles were crowding up any empty space in the room, where would Malfoy sleep?

Of course, he would have to sleep somewhere else because Harry was _not_ going to sacrifice his bed to the prissy aristocrat, however he may enjoy seeing him squirm under the scratchy, half-worn sheets.

 _Malfoy can sleep on the floor_ , he decided, _Lord knows it would do him good to learn some humility-_

CRASH!

The sudden noise made Harry freeze in total panic for a full second before he ran at the door, pulling it open violently, then rushing down the stairs at full speed. He tripped over the last four and went tumbling straight down to the bottom. Heedless of his growing number of injuries, he skidded to a halt at the entrance of the kitchen, taking in the overturned table, the smashed vase.

 _Aunt Petunia's favorite vase._

Her only connection to her mother.

Footsteps sounded behind Harry. They sounded like Uncle Vernon's.

'Oh no,' he muttered.

* * *

Harry had his back to Vernon. He didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad thing. It depended entirely on the older man's mood.

A large hand slammed onto Harry's shoulder and he flinched hugely; he had not been expecting that at all. He mentally kicked himself when he saw Malfoy's eyes narrow in his direction.

 _There's nothing curious about this Malfoy, nothing at all. And even if there was, then you shouldn't care, right? Turn your head around, good, good, that's it,_ he said in his head, wondering if him saying it over and over would hypnotize Malfoy like it did in movies.

To his great disappointment, Malfoy did not sway on his feet or even look slightly less alert, and Harry knew that he had to come up with some plausible explanations for the way things were around this house. But that would have to wait till later because right now he was in BIG TROUBLE. First, he'd brought a guest into the house without permission, never mind that he'd been forced into this, and now the aforementioned guest had somehow broken the table and Aunt Petunia's favorite vase.

' _Boy_ ,' hissed Vernon, 'You and I need to have a talk _. Now._ '

 _No_. Not in front of Malfoy. Harry had a bad feeling that this would not be one of Uncle Vernon's normal 'talks'. This would be bloody.

He thought fast. 'But Uncle Vernon, you still haven't had supper. You always do something hasty if you haven't eaten. The food's ready, do you want me to set the table and take him,' he jerked his finger at Malfoy, 'upstairs?'

Vernon's beady eyes narrowed. The brat was right, he was hungry. And all this anger required a full stomach.

'We _will_ talk, boy. You are not getting out of this one that easy.'

'Of course not, Uncle Vernon,' said Harry with a certain amount of sarcasm.

Vernon growled.

Harry took Malfoy by the collar and raced upstairs.

* * *

Draco was getting dragged up a set of stairs. By his collar. _By Potter!_ Oh, how he wished he was still the Malfoy heir. He'd make sure to test out the dungeons in the Manor with his very first victim…

'Potter,' he said with gritted teeth, 'do you think I am bodily disabled?'

'Huh?' Potter's blank face strangely did not remind him of his fat relative downstairs.

'I have _legs_ , Potter. I can and will walk up this measly flight of stairs on my _own_. I do not need you to carry me like some punished house elf!'

Understanding dawned, and Potter blinked behind his huge glasses, which were horribly fixed with bits of Spellotape and thread. Draco was repulsed. Why didn't Potter get his spectacle frames mended? Surely he had the money, many a time had Draco seen him spending on behalf of his Weasel friends.

'…sorry about that, I didn't think. I just wanted to get upstairs.'

Wait, what? The casual apology threw him completely off guard.

Potter was impatiently gesturing at the door, so Draco followed him inside what appeared to be Hero Potter's bedroom.

Aforementioned hero was already looking at him oddly, but when Draco actually winced, he gave up the attempt at silence.

' _What_ is the matter with you, Malfoy? Why are your eyes closed? You're going to be living in here remember? It's not like you can avoid seeing it all summer.'

At his words, both boys groaned in unison, looked at each other in disgust and turned away. No one needed to be reminded how long they would have to put up with each other, especially Malfoy, for whom this was the greater ordeal.

As he turned, Malfoy got his first glimpse of the room. He saw grey.

And more grey.

Thinning white paint on the walls, uncomfortable looking bed sheets, scruffy, broken and creepily staring stuffed toys, Potter's trunk leaning against the wall.

Draco didn't believe it.

' _This_ is your room? But Professor Snape said… If you're pulling my wand, Potter, I'll make you regret it.'

Potter looked at him in aggravation. Draco cursed himself. He'd meant to be prepared and on his good behavior but the state of what he assumed was Potter's room had tripped him up. He'd lashed out in the only way he knew how: threats. Even if they held no power now, oh Merlin, it was his first day and he'd _already_ seen so many things he didn't want to.

 _Damn it, Mother! Even Parkinson Manor would have been better than this!_

'You actually believe what comes out if Snape's mouth? No wonder you're all such prejudiced arses. Let me set this straight out for you, Malfoy. Snape doesn't know a thing about me or my family. He's a greasy, twisted old bat who wouldn't know a joke if it spat on his face, am I clear? I am not the stuck up hero you all so desperately want me to be, so just shut up!'

His eyes were ablaze with anger and Malfoy, despite his indignation about the comments against his mentor, thought it best to direct it away from him.

'Where am I to sleep, Potter? That bed is awfully small and the sheets look awfully dirty. Unlike you, I need my beauty sleep.'

Potter's face morphed into a grin and he pointed to the floor with unnecessary force.

'Seems like you'll have to do without it then.'

'What?'

'That bed is _**mine**_ , Malfoy. _You're_ sleeping on the floor. And those sheets are _not_ dirty. I washed them myself.'

No way. Never.

'Potter.'

A huge, satisfied, utterly content grin. 'Yes?'

'A Malfoy _never_ sleeps. On. The. Floor.'

'Ah, but you're not a Malfoy now, are you? You're in my house, and you have to do what I say or I might kick you out. _Then_ where would you go?'

Suddenly, it was all too much and Malfoy slid down the wall, onto the very floor he despised sleeping on. His head was in his hands and his entire countenance radiated misery.

He distantly heard Potter say something that was probably stupid, so he automatically insulted him. He wanted to be left alone.

* * *

Seeing Malfoy so out of it was healing for Harry's heart, like ambrosia, but it was also disturbing. Malfoy wasn't _supposed_ to look like an injured puppy, it was wrong. So without meaning to, Harry tried to offer some words of comfort. It was ridiculous that the blond felt something simple was so degrading. Just how pampered a life had he lived if he thought it would always be in his favor? If just sleeping on the floor was so difficult, what would he do if he knew what sort of things Harry had gone through?

 _Probably run away screaming like the coward he is,_ he thought with satisfaction _._

'It's really not that hard, Malfoy. If you don't think too much about it, you'll be fine.'

He felt so mature as he reassured his enemy, that he was very insulted when Malfoy vaguely told him to get lost. He rolled his eyes and left to make supper and confront his Uncle.

* * *

Supper was a quiet affair. The Dursleys were tense and Harry was too anxious about the 'talk' to pay mind to his grumbling belly.

After washing up, he went to the sitting room without being called.

'You're here, good, and _without_ being called. A step up from your performance this evening, I'd say.'

Harry lifted his eyebrows in mock surprise.

Vernon laughed. Harry's eyebrows came down with frightening speed; Vernon never laughed during one of his angry moods. He was a temperamental man who knew nothing about intimidation that required more than raw anger and, as such, the laugh didn't fit with the situation.

'Petunia and I have put up with you for fifteen years now, and our patience is wearing thin.'

'Technically, that's fourteen years.'

'DON'T INTERRUPT ME, BOY!'

Harry involuntarily flinched, then looked down. It was never good to rile up Vernon Dursley and he was doing a fantastic job of it. Vernon, on the other hand, was taking calming breaths and finally spoke again.

'We took you in, fed you, gave you a roof over your head, woke up in the dead of the night to stop your wailing and change your filthy, soiled clothes…'

Harry could hardly contain his embarrassment at being told about his babyhood helplessness, but he resolved to keep his mouth shut.

'Well, they wouldn't be soiled in the first placed if you'd…'

He could have kicked himself.

Vernon's meaty hand came crashing on to the glass table. It cracked under his fist, causing him to let out a roar of pure anger as he shook it out.

Horrified, Harry watched as Vernon got up and stalked toward him, eyes full of pain and hatred. This was his Uncle's breaking point, he realized. Until now, Vernon had been tolerant at least, but he'd just snapped and Harry was scared of what he could do.

 _He won't hurt me, he_ _ **can't**_ _hurt me_ , he chanted fruitlessly in his head.

But who was here to stop the giant of a man form harming him? He couldn't use magic and there was no one in the house that would stop him. With growing alarm, and a certain amount of resignation, he understood that he was all alone, just as he understood that whatever went on in this room today would never be revealed to anyone else. Harry was so busy preparing himself that he never saw the blow coming.

It swung his jaw toward the wall, where his head knocked against the plaster.

When Vernon, drunk on rage, bent down and pulled him up by his hair, banging him against the unyielding wall again, the plaster actually came loose, flakes floating down gently in a cruel contrast to the violent scene they landed on. A bruise was forming on Harry's face and a lump on the back of his head.

Looking at his battered arm in delayed shock, anger gripped Harry. He was a Gryffindor, for Merlin's sake, why was he surrendering to a Muggle? Uncle Vernon was afraid of magic; wouldn't that save him? He had never been hit before and it all felt a bit surreal, but the finger-shaped marks on his arm hurt like crazy. He pinched himself, just to be sure, right on the bruises and let out a surprised cry.

It all came crashing down then: this was real and his Uncle was actually doing this, and oh my God, Malfoy was upstairs!

Harry thought that this was a good time to go into panic-mode. When his Uncle advanced, Harry fought like a wild cat, struggling and flailing against the older man's mightier grip. When the next punch fell onto his knee, however, he crumpled on the floor. Using that as an advantage, Vernon, his face set in cruel glee, dumped his considerable bulk onto Harry's weak frame. Thankfully, his stomach was too empty for Harry to throw up, but since his bones were sticking out from the lack of food, the heavy pressure was transferred straight to them. The air whooshed out of Harry's lungs and he could barely hear what was being said over and over.

' _What's the first rule in this house, boy? What's the first rule?'_

As breathing became tougher, he struggled not to gasp or scream. Nothing to give his Uncle the pleasure, but all such bravado left him when Vernon took Harry's neck in his hands. Panicking, Harry choked out the words: 'No magic.'

Vernon gave a squeeze, delighting in the gasp that resulted and hissed, 'What's the next one?'

'Always come when you're called.'

Harry hated him, hated the world, hated Dumbledore, hated his Aunt for not doing a thing as she heard the suspicious sounds from the sitting room. Then it hit him and his green eyes widened.

'Your coat!' The words came out raspy and with difficulty.

The man looked satisfied. 'I told you, boy, there is a line in this house. You cross it, you get it. Got it?' He laughed at his own words, pulling his battered nephew off the floor.

Harry looked like a character from the horror films Dudley sometimes watched. His body was damaged and injured only from one side. Vernon had carefully left the other side unharmed.

'You won't get away with everything like you do in your freak school, by rights they should have expelled you! You step one toe out of line - one! - and I'll do the same to your other side, _understand_ boy?'

At Harry's unresponsive face, he shook the small teenager mercilessly. 'UNDERSTAND?' he bellowed. Harry winced at the loud noise and, for fear of Malfoy peeking in, replied.

'Yes, Uncle Vernon.'

'Good,' said Vernon and released the boy with a push, causing him to stumble in his haste to get out of the room.

Once he was gone, Vernon heard a sound like a body falling to the ground.

He shook off any lingering doubts, stroked his mustache and smiled like a child who'd gotten a new toy.

And perhaps he had.

* * *

Outside the room, Harry failed to keep balance on the fourth step and fell onto the stairs in a heap. After a few seconds, he hauled himself up and with immense will power, managed to reach the door of his room.

Just as he readied to enter the room, he remembered that Malfoy hadn't had anything to eat yet, and Harry wasn't going to give him a clue about what went on here. Harry himself was suffering punishment for emptying the salt salt shaker in Dudley's 'Smelting's Coffee'. It had been funny to watch, but it had had consequences which made him wish he hadn't done. _It was so funny_ , though, that he could barely restrain himself. He was allowed to do so little which didn't result in the threat of getting kicked out of Number 4, Privet Drive, that he couldn't let an opportunity to baffle Dudley pass by like that.

Shaking with silent laughter as he recalled the expression on his cousin's face, Harry collected what little food he could from the refrigerator without making it seem suspicious, and headed upstairs. A calm had settled over him and Harry was in no mood to break out of it.

He met no one on his way.

At his door, he inhaled deeply, tried to disguise his trembling legs and harsh breathing into a confident demeanor and entered the room at a slight angle. Malfoy was sitting two steps from where he'd left him but in the exact same position. When Harry came in he didn't lift his head, but in a voice slightly muffled by his hands, he said, 'There are _bars_ on your _window_.'

Harry groaned. He was not dealing with this now. Turning exactly so that his wounded side would be hidden, Harry put the plate in front of Malfoy.

'I'm tired and exhausted and in no mood to answer your questions, Malfoy. Just eat and go to sleep. Ask me whatever you want tomorrow.'

To his intense surprise, Malfoy didn't react, simply reached out and as Harry watched, delicately ate his way around the plate. His mannerisms were so proper that it made Harry self-conscious about the way _he_ ate whenever he was allowed some food. Compared to Malfoy, his etiquette was like a caveman's.

Without looking at him, Malfoy finished his food, placed the plate gently on the floor beside him and resumed his position on the floor. Knowing this was his way of dealing with the humiliation of sleeping on the ground, _and_ because he was too achy to make fun of him for it, Harry quietly picked up the plate, washed it, stowed it neatly on the drying rack and crept back upstairs. He switched off the lights and pulled up his sheets, hissing involuntarily at the searing pains that assaulted his sore limbs.

Without meaning to, his thoughts turned to his conversation with Dumbledore. He'd tried to do what the wizard had said, going easy on Malfoy, but it was harder than he had expected. Today had been a day of unpleasant incidents, probably one of the worst he'd ever had, so rekindling his rivalry with the pale ferret had been quite low on his list of priorities. It would be different tomorrow, when he'd have to fend off nosy questions from the slimy Slytherin.

Oh, how he hated his life.

His last thought before drifting off to an uncomfortable sleep was that his unwelcome roommate curled in an awkward position on his bedroom floor, though wide awake, hadn't insulted him once.

* * *

 **A/N: The review button needs clicking. _All_ feedback is appreciated.**


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

 **Chapter 4**

The sun's rays seeped into the room, washing over Draco's face, coaxing him awake. He groaned and twisted the other way, trying to snuggle into a pillow that seemed particularly hard, _oh he was going to tell Dobby off for this..._

Draco jerked awake as he realized that the material beneath him was wood and that Dobby was gone; no longer a servant at the Malfoy household. The ground felt rough and hard against a cheek flushed with humiliation. Apparently all the drama had taken quite a lot out of him and he'd dropped off sometime last night without intending to. At least he took some comfort in the reaction his father would have at the treatment he was receiving at Potter's. He'd go ballistic; nothing less for the Malfoy heir, he would say. Never _my son_ , only _the Malfoy heir_. And though Malfoy would never admit it, the detachment hurt.

A neatly made bed announced Potter's absence, something that made Draco's eyebrows lift. Draco was more organized than some of his housemates because of his upbringing but he was an only child in his teenage years and had dozens of house elves at his beck and call. He'd never made up a bed in his life and thought it was strange that Potter did.

A sudden, shrill, ringing sound erupted within the room.

Already on the edge, Draco swiveled his head to the tiny plastic square sitting on Potter's dresser, shaking and vibrating. His heart beat in his chest and his hands rose unbidden to his ears, in a weak attempt to drown out the piercing ring even as his hands fumbled for his wand. Holding it in a shaking grip, Draco fumbled with the door knob, sweaty and panicked, almost slipped down the stairs in his rush to make it stop. He skidded into the kitchen, a faint sound drifting by his ear still, and made Potter jump out of his skin. The knife clattered out of the black-haired boy's hands and he stared unabashedly at Draco's disheveled appearance.

'What the heck, Malfoy?'

'Potter, there's a, a…something in your room and it's screaming and it doesn't stop!'

'…what?'

Now Draco was annoyed as well as panicked. _This_ was the boy who was supposed to save the world? _We'd be better off with a few flesh-eating piranhas._

'That little plastic box on your dresser! It keeps screaming, Potter, make it stop!'

Potter stared at him uncomprehendingly, then the sound reached his ears.

'Malfoy,' he whispered, 'please tell me you didn't leave the door open.'

'What? Of course I did! I was more worried about being pierced to death than propriety just then. Maybe self preservation is a foreign concept to a mind as underdeveloped as yours, but I'll have you know that the rest us rather like to…'

He never got to finish.

Potter swore, slammed his knife onto the counter, and raced upstairs. Draco frowned in disapproval at the coarse language, his humiliation momentarily forgotten as he wondered what was wrong with Potter _now_. It was his first morning in the Dursley household and he already hated it. Not only was Potter intolerable, he was also cocky, more sarcastic than Draco would have liked and very, very odd. He'd noticed small things here and there that seemed out of place for the image that Potter had presented of his simple home. He was still getting over the fact that Potter was not granted his every wish immediately. Oh, he'd been aware that Potter didn't particularly like coming home, but he'd thought that if his relatives didn't like him, at least they'd serve him out of fear or admiration. There was no such thing.

Absently, but still on guard for screeching cubes of plastic, Draco looked around the kitchen, taking note of all the oddities. There was a big white slab right underneath the counter with a circular glass window protruding out of it. He wondered what it was for. Aside from that, the blindingly spotless kitchen contained a small machine with two rectangular slots plugged by a long cord to the wall – a wall, seriously? – and yet another rectangular white box with buttons and a clear window. Muggles, Draco decided, had an unhealthy obsession with white boxes connected to walls. A loud _thud_ from upstairs made him pause, then shrug and continue his observations. A moment later, he turned to the door resolving to ask Potter about them, then froze. Standing in the doorway was Potter, head lowered and hand clutching the frame, but that wasn't what he saw. The arm was littered with bruises, standing in stark relief to the pale skin beneath, some already purpling, while others were an unpleasant shade of green. Draco gaped.

'What in Merlin's name did you do to yourself, Potter?' As always when he didn't know what to feel, his voice came out harsh and accusatory.

Potter flinched, as if forgetting he was in front of him, and hastily pulled down the sleeve that had ridden up to expose the marks. His hair was shielding his expression from Draco, to his frustration. Then, Potter looked up calmly and answered in a tone that was almost too nonchalant. Draco was not thick, there was something off about Potter and the obvious fact that he was hiding something. But what?

'I fell off the stairs when I came up with your food last night. I fell on my side so that's where I got hurt.'

Draco didn't believe him, but who was he to interfere in Potter's affairs? If something had happened, it was obviously painful for him, and anything painful to Potter was Draco's pleasure. So he smirked and leant back on the counter.

'Best Seeker in the century and this is the best you can do? Topple down a flight of stairs? I always knew you were only admitted because McGonagall was desperate. There is no other way you could have beaten me.'

To his extreme dissatisfaction, Potter merely shrugged. 'At least you admit that I beat you. How I did it doesn't count as long as I achieve my goal, isn't that right? Isn't that what Slytherin is about?'

Without waiting for Draco's reply, he stepped around him to the cabinet next to the sink, pulling out yet another white object with a strange dial and an even stranger shape. He connected a cord to the wall – what was _in_ that wall? – and placed a container full of milk on it. He calmly stepped over to the biggest rectangular box and retrieved a bunch of strawberries. He sliced the fruit with practiced ease into the milk.

Draco was too weirded out by now to even attempt to make sense of this calm and collected Potter who, apparently, could be mistaken for a houself. Draco was confident that nothing could ever unbalance him agai…

For the second time that day, he let out a startled sound and had his wand pointed at the source before Potter could blink. As it was, the moronic wizard just looked at him blankly; as if he couldn't hear that abominable, _inhuman_ sound of bones crushing together… as if he wasn't standing next to the very thing that was causing it! Pointing his wand wildly at every jerk of the blasted object – what was it _doing?_ – he shifted his gaze to Potter with the intention of demanding him to stop this now, when he caught his smirk.

It looked positively Slytherin. Involuntarily, he shuddered.

* * *

Harry was feeling immensely satisfied. After all, making Malfoy lose his princely act two times a day was surely a record and it wasn't even ten o'clock yet! Slowly, deliberately, he switched off the mixer and the ensuing silence was broken only by the faint sound of Draco's pants as he tried to muffle them.

He stood, watching in amusement until he realized that he was wasting precious time and after yesterday he didn't even want to think about what the repercussions of a late breakfast would be… no, he wasn't supposed to think of that. Mustn't. Not if he wanted to go back to Hogwarts.

He ignored the other presence in the kitchen and went about his daily routine: preparing a feast for the Dursley family - what most people called breakfast. The Dursleys were definitely not breaking any fast; he suspected Dudley had raided the fridge again because several oranges Harry had had his eye on had disappeared, along with his fantasies of eating them. As a matter of course, he would be blamed if Aunt Petunia stuck her nose in to check if he'd stolen anything and complain about him eating her family out of house and home. Usually, the punishment wasn't that serious; just a day or two in the confines of his locked room, but now things were different. He had a roommate who'd definitely not appreciate being confined and would demand Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon to let him out. His stomach roiled at the thought of his uncle…thank God Malfoy'd bought the excuse…Malfoy!

Harry whirled around, cursing himself for losing sight of the blond, Merlin knows what other Dursley rules he'd break in his absence, and came face to face with said blond whose eyebrow arched in amusement.

'Bit jumpy today, aren't you, Potter?'

'At least I'm not the one who screamed like Moaning Myrtle in a bad mood,' retorted Harry, feeling rather proud of his witty comment.

Malfoy's pale skin flushed with escalating anger and he opened his mouth to retort.

'Who's Moaning Myrtle? And where's my milkshake? I want breakfast!'

Or not.

'On the table, Dudley.'

Dudley stared in confusion. 'You called me Dudley.'

'Yes, it's your name isn't it? Or did you forget?'

His cousin grunted, still looking confused, then saw the breakfast spread and shrugged it off.

Harry let out a relieved sigh at being let off the hook and tried not to be too conspicuous as he hid his battered side from Dudley's piggy eyes.

'So who's Moaning Myrtle?'

'No one,' said Harry quickly, desperately hoping to avoid a scene like the day before, since Dudley was sure to yell if Malfoy mentioned Hogwarts or magic or wizards or ghosts… or made himself known, for that matter.

Dudley grunted again, starting on his second egg, unaware that he was under the scrutiny of a disgusted aristocrat.

* * *

Draco had never seen a pig before, but he bet a thousand galleons from his Gringott's account that this was how they ate.

All those distasteful, grunting sounds and the loud smack of lips was giving way to rising nausea and he wasn't sure he would be able to stomach any food right now. True, he had never enjoyed those grueling lessons in etiquette, but for the first time since he could remember, he was thankful for the training. At least when he ate, he didn't repulse everyone in the vicinity.

And there was something fishy about Potter's excuse for looking like one of… _them_. The quick reply, the shadowed eyes – all of it indicated that Potter was trying to hide something. Draco was not a Slytherin for nothing; reading body language and exploiting it was a basic tool taught to all families who belonged to that house. Lucius himself was a master manipulator and would expect nothing less from his only son.

The question was _why_ Potter would be trying to hide something and what it was. A wonderful thought occurred to Draco: he might be confined to this tiny Muggle building with Potter as a roommate, but it gave him more than enough time to get some _very_ incriminating blackmail material.

His plans to humiliate his enemy brightened up his day and gave him a new goal. So without any further ado, he ordered Potter to bring his breakfast to his room and strutted out of the kitchen.

He did not notice Potter sigh with relief at his departure and slump on the counter, wincing.

* * *

Harry was incredibly amazed that he managed to do all his chores, even if he took almost double the time for each. His left arm hung loosely at his side, utterly useless, making it hard to complete even the smallest amount of labor, but what really had him curling into himself was the pain in his side. Uncle Vernon had smirked all through breakfast and it took all his control to stand still and serve him his breakfast. Straightening up was an ordeal and picking anything up was like being under the Imperius curse; his body just wouldn't respond.

Speaking of… he hadn't had any nightmares last night, _that_ was a first. It was the only night since finishing the blasted Tournament that he hadn't jolted awake in a flurry of panic and sweat. At least, at Hogwarts he had Silencing and Repelling charms to keep everyone from noticing. At the Dursleys', however, he had no such luxuries and had to sleep with his head buried in the pillow, surrounded by his bed sheets. They were thin, true, but they functioned well. The Dursleys had not yet come stomping into his room – that was always a plus.

But now that Malfoy and he were sharing a room, what would happen? Of course, since the blond jerk lived to make Harry's existence difficult, he would probably be a light sleeper and would discover Harry at his worst. And he really didn't want that to happen. The pureblood was already bad enough when he knew nothing about Harry's Muggle life, but now he had full access to find everything he'd tried to keep separate from school.

The way Harry saw it, Hogwarts and the magical world had no business in his life at Privet Drive. He saw no harm in being completely evasive when asked questions about it. Harry wasn't stupid; he knew Hermione worried for him, and that Molly Weasley had a lot to say about the Dursleys' treatment of him (what he'd revealed to them, anyways,), but as long as he was with friends, he saw no reason to darken the atmosphere with his tales of woe. He didn't need any more attention and he'd feel uncomfortable with the others' pity. He was a wizard, the Chosen One, and this was simply one of the trials he had to go through as a result. He could handle it; hadn't Dumbledore said that this Muggle environment was good for him? He wouldn't prove the Headmaster wrong again, he just _couldn't_.

Harry snapped his arm back with a hiss as he righted the pan with his right. Engrossed in his musings, he'd forgotten to avoid using his left side. Petunia and Vernon had left earlier this afternoon to the Garrisons' in the hopes of securing another business deal. Dudley was far too unconcerned with these 'boring' visits to accompany them, and there was no way Mr. and Mrs. Dursley would leave their precious, unremarkable house in the guardianship of two 'freaks'. Harry was surprised they'd even leave Dudley alone in the house with him and Malfoy, but gathered that it was because Malfoy hadn't made an appearance all day. He'd shut the door and personally, Harry did not really want to retreat into the presence of his unwelcome guest lest they started another fight. So far, Malfoy was not on the Dursley radar, but if they had an argument he _definitely_ would be. It was much better if he accepted Dumbledore's advice and acted like the bigger person here. Yes, if he avoided Malfoy and didn't do anything provocative, surely the summer would be far less… disastrous.

He turned back to dinner with a new sort of calm, his mind automatically pushing the jarring events of last night on the back burner and settling into a state of blankness.

 _There's no need to agonize over such things. This is not Hogwarts and I don't have to be a hero. Here, I'm the Potter boy who is dangerous, odd and far too small for his age. No one expects me to save the world if I don't solve the problem, and I have no one I must be 'fine' for. Except Malfoy._

 _But I can handle him._

* * *

Upstairs, Draco had abandoned his initial disgust for the bed to get some rest. His search for embarrassing information had been wholly unsatisfactory. Not to say that he had not found anything, but the things he had discovered hidden away were hardly good for the epic blackmailing he had planned for the scarred nuisance. All in all, he'd dug up a few broken toys hidden behind the curtains on the window, a teddy bear that looked like it had been mauled by a particularly vicious eagle (or a particularly nasty eight-year-old boy, but he didn't know that) and a book.

It was the last item that interested him most. It was actually an album, he discovered, and seemed worn because it had been flipped through so often. It was cheap and a few pages were crinkled by what he guessed was some sort of liquid; it clearly wasn't meant to be used as an album, but Potter was either too poor to buy a good one (not possible because according to his father the Potters had left the boy enough to last him all his years at Hogwarts and more) or he just didn't care (quite possible, the 'Chosen One' had absolutely no taste).

Draco flipped through the album slowly, a smirk gradually developing on his face. It is perhaps fortunate that one cannot see what he looks like all the time, because if Draco had seen himself, he would have been frightened by his own expression. He flipped back and forth, as if memorizing something, then closed it and slid it back under the mattress where it had been hidden. Wouldn't do for Potter to know he'd seen it before Draco had some terribly excruciating conversation planned, after all. It would ruin all the fun.

Something clattered to the ground and Draco picked it up in surprise.

A wand? Potter's undoubtedly.

But what was it doing in such an inconvenient place? Gryffindors were foolish, he knew, but had Potter gained nothing from his many adventures to learn to be armed at all times?

Then again, Potter's luck was absurdly frequent - probably the only reason he was still alive. That, and his Mudblood parasite. She was the only one in Scarhead's group of buffoons with any reason, too bad her parents were scum. He replaced the wand next to the album, checked for his own in the sleeve of his robes and walked regally downstairs. While keeping him occupied, his hunt for Potter's things had not erased from his mind the fact that he was in a Muggle house, between Muggle people and living with the one person that got on his nerves.

Potter was in the kitchen, cooking for the third time that day.

'Cooking again, Potter? You seem to enjoy it. I'm sure your little friends would love to hear how in touch you are with your feminine side.'

Potter didn't even look at him. Annoyed, he glanced at the rotund menace that had dropped itself into the sofa right in front of _yet anothe_ r rectangular Muggle box. This one also emitted an unacceptable amount of noise which was overwhelming his voice, but there were…things in it: flashes and blurs of color, a heinous amount of orange and some very spectacular explosions. Draco paused, trying to make sense of what was being said, or yelled, rather, but couldn't make head nor tails of it. It sounded like someone was shouting, but the words were foreign.

Curious despite himself, he crept closer, but not too close. Father would've had a fit. On the other hand, he was the one who agreed to send his only son into this filthy Muggle abode in the first place, so Draco felt it within his rights to bend the rules a little. What Father didn't know wouldn't hurt him. He could now make out the…were those meant to look like human beings?

The characters behind the screen had strange, angular faces that were pointedly unrealistic and strange, animated forms. How did they get behind the box in the first place?

And why were they so small? They were _nowhere_ near the size of a regular person.

Was this some undiscovered Muggle species that provided entertainment? Well, he guessed it was entertainment because the Potter's stout cousin was laughing and occasionally punching the air as yet another explosion appeared behind the glass barrier.

Largely unsettled, Draco pushed his thoughts aside to simply watch what appeared to be two figures hurrying away from the smoke of the explosion. The odd thing was that while their feet were moving impossibly fast, their hands were held behind their backs, parallel to the ground.

'What are they _doing?'_

He hadn't meant to say it out loud, or actually get a response, so he almost jumped when Potter, who he realized had glimpsed his moment of forbidden curiosity, replied amusedly.

'What are you _wearing?_ '

'What does it look like I'm wearing, you moron?'

'We don't wear robes in the Muggle world, Malfoy. If you walk around looking like that, they'll make fun of you.'

Conflicted, Malfoy hesitantly removed the outer layer. He was left in the Muggle clothes his mother had carefully packed for him. He knew he'd have to wear them; he'd just been unwilling to let go of his only connection to the magical world.

'You didn't answer my question, Potter.'

'They're ninja. They run like that.'

What.

'What exactly is a ninja? Not that I care, of course, I could be less interested about such Muggle concepts,' he added hastily.

Infuriatingly, Potter was not deterred in the slightest. He stared into the air for a few moments before seeming to arrive at a conclusion. Lifting his shoulder – very carefully, Draco noticed – in a partial shrug, he began to explain what the rectangular box was, what it did and why those shrunken forms were running like that.

It was fascinating.

The minute he thought that, he feared lightning would strike him from above, or Lucius Malfoy would come storming into the house to brand Draco a Muggle-lover and he held his breath, but nothing happened.

There was no crash of thunder, no enraged Pureblood coming to beat the fascination out of him, in short, no consequence for having a thought so taboo, a mention was liable disownment. His heart was beating faster and his body had arranged itself into his distinctive stance.

He was probably sneering, too. It was his automatic defense against confusion or worry of any kind and it worked every time.

Potter shook his head. 'Of course Malfoy the Prick doesn't approve. Seriously, what was I expecting? That you'd actually let some air into that narrow mind of yours?' He snorted. 'Hah, the day you do _that_ , I'll join the SPEW.'

Draco stared at him. 'Scarhead. I knew you were crazy, but I'm stuck with you for the rest of the holidays, so try to make an effort to actually be comprehensible, understand?'

'Whatever, Malfoy. Go away. Go watch T.V or something, just don't bother me 'til dinner's ready.'

'Who died and made _you_ king, Gryffindork?'

'Voldemort,' answered Potter smugly, 'although it does look like he's made a return.'

'Which is why you're here, ruining my life,' he added pointedly, glaring at him.

Draco flinched at the casual use of the Dark Lord's name, feeling horribly out of place and strangely disinclined to continue their verbal spar. He headed toward the sofa without a word.

Seating himself as far away from the Muggle as possible, he got a closer look at the 'screen' and figured out that the words on the bottom were what the people were saying. Slowly, his eyes got accustomed to the simultaneous division of attention between the moving pictures and the translations.

He still couldn't make heads nor tails of it.

Encouraged by Potter's satisfactory response previously, he ventured to ask the cousin a question.

'You. Muggle. What is going on?'

Said Muggle turned his head away from the screen so fast Draco wondered if he'd gotten a whiplash.

'Don't call me a…a _that,_ you freak!'

Draco felt the anger rear its ugly head, poised to strike. He sniffed disdainfully.

'If anyone's the freak here, you filthy Muggle, it's _you_.'

' _I'm_ perfectly normal! You're the freak! Who in their right mind would name their kid _Draco_ anyway?'

'It's a powerful name, the name of my predecessor and senior! My father was the one who chose it! It is a perfectly appropriate name, which is more than I can say for _you_ , Durbey! Yours sounds like a peasant's,' he spat hatefully.

'Dudley! My name is _Dudley_ Dursley and it does not sound like a peasant's!'

'It does to me. Your father must have expected you to be a disgrace. I'm not surprised, considering how you turned out.'

They'd both risen from their seats to yell at each other and had forgotten about the other presence in the room.

* * *

'Malfoy! Dudley! Sit down!'

They both looked at him in unison, their argument halting in it's tracks.

Then Dudley sneered. 'Who are you to boss me around, freak? I'll do what I want.'

There were so many things Harry could have said, but he crushed the retorts and turned to Malfoy, who he had some semblance of control over.

'Malfoy, do you really think it's a good idea to pick a fight, here? If you're really that stupid, go ahead. You're not a wizard right now and you're not a Malfoy, so just shut up, okay?'

It felt so good to say those words. It felt even better when his arch enemy flushed with anger, hands trembling at the reminder of his lost family and stalked off, fuming.

Dinner was uneventful, and everyone retired early, worn out from the day's events. Harry was aching all over and deathly tired. Worse, he was sure that the nightmares would come back and there was no way to keep it from Malfoy. He would have spent the night awake, but that wasn't a practical plan for the rest of the holidays and he was falling asleep standing, besides.

He would just have to risk it.

And _Merlin_ , he hoped Malfoy was a heavy sleeper.

But he wasn't counting on it.

* * *

 **A/N: All feedback is greatly appreciated. I understand that it is not consistent with the Harry Potter timeline, but there's ramen for whoever guesses what Dudley was watching.**


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